


Hear the Nightingale Sing

by Jalules



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Baking, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Trans Character, a bit of flirty nonsense, gratuitous use of irish folk music, it's not a plot point just a fact of my writing ronan you should be aware of, trans!ronan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalules/pseuds/Jalules
Summary: The usual warm and slightly creaky quiet of the Barns in the morning was disturbed by the music playing, not at all the drone and buzz of electronic background noise Ronan sometimes put on, but something livelier; it sounded like St. Patrick’s day downstairs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is some self indulgent fluff for sure.

_. _

.

 

Adam woke up in what had once been, what was once again, finally, Ronan’s bedroom at the Barns. He came to a grudging consciousness to the sight of mid-morning light and the sound of faint music. There was a distinctly Ronan shaped indent on the empty pillow beside him, one caused more by punching than by being slept on, but Ronan himself was already gone.

The temptation to stay in bed until Ronan inevitably came back to check on him (which was  _ a thing _ , Adam had discovered during his earlier stays at the Barns,) was strong, but for once he didn’t feel like he needed another few hours of sleep. He suspected that had something to do with spending the night on a quality mattress instead of a dorm bed, and perhaps also Ronan’s presence beside him for at least part of the night.

It was only the third day of his current break from school, but it was something closer to his tenth -twelfth? -twentieth? -time staying the night with Ronan, and he was already becoming accustomed to sharing a bed with someone he liked, even if that someone did have a habit of tossing and turning and pulling things out of their dreams and into reality. And although the Barns never felt quite situated in the real world anyway, Adam couldn’t help feeling as if he himself might still be dreaming. The usual warm and slightly creaky quiet of the house in the morning was disturbed by the music playing, not at all the drone and buzz of electronic background noise Ronan sometimes put on, but something livelier; it sounded like St. Patrick’s day downstairs.

Adam forced himself up out of bed, too curious to stay put any longer, and pulled his t-shirt, still rucked up and twisted sideways courtesy of Ronan, back into place. He stepped lightly down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen, following the sound of the music, and found the room lit up bright, as bustling as it could be with one person inside. Ronan was there, still in the pajama pants he’d slept in, now sporting a tank top made up of so little fabric that the majority of his tattoo as well as the matched set of scars on his chest were simultaneously visible. He was wiping flour off the counter and into the sink, the fingers of his free hand tapping along the porcelain edge in time with the beat of the music. 

Adam wasn’t the best with identifying even chart topping hits, so the strange jig, complete with someone singing, quite literally,  _ “dum dum de diddly dum,” _ was entirely lost on him. The flour, too, baffled him for a moment, until he realized that there were other common ingredients sitting out too, and a tray of what looked suspiciously like lopsided slabs of raw biscuit dough. Even more damning was the oven, very definitely churning out heat, an old fashioned kitchen timer set beside it.

“Are you baking?” Adam asked, and Ronan looked up at the sound of his voice, “I had no idea you were so domestic.”

Ronan pulled an especially unattractive face, a fine balance between sneer and gag, and moved to stand impatiently beside the oven, “If I had to spend another morning with the brat pestering me to make biscuits there was going to be a problem,” He sounded fond despite himself, “Like she cares what real food tastes like. She eats leaves and shit.”

Adam bit his tongue to keep from pointing out that denying a child biscuits might actually be a crime in several nearby counties; he didn’t need to give Ronan ammunition to needle him for being so goddamn Southern first thing in the morning, “She also likes Cocoa Puffs though,” He said instead, and Ronan hummed in agreement, as though it were a deciding factor on a person’s taste level.

“There’s coffee and tea if you want it,” Ronan said, a reminder, gesturing toward the cabinet Adam knew stored an array of tea bags and coffee beans ranging from dollar store off brands to foreign and astronomically expensive. The fact that Adam was expected to get his own drinks, that he was perfectly welcome to anything and everything the Barns had to offer, was a comfortably unspoken matter. 

Adam shook his head, “Maybe later.” He wanted to enjoy the sensation of feeling awake simply because he’d slept for a while before turning to caffeine. He checked the timer on the counter, still at the five minute mark, and sidled up next to Ronan, bumping hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. The chunky CD player in the corner, oddly shaped and a little brighter than a relic of the 90s should look, probably a dream object, channeled another round of Irish accented song into the room.

Ronan nudged Adam’s hip back harder than necessary, playing rough as ever, and followed along with the words of the song, less singing than flat out chanting,

“ _ There are sober men a- plenty, _

_ and drunkards barely twenty, _

_ there are men of over ninety who have never yet kissed a girl- _ ”

Adam reached up to take Ronan’s chin in his hand, interrupting the song, “Somebody write this with you in mind?”

Ronan cawed a laugh and leaned in close to kiss Adam, quickly losing track of the song in favor of one more kiss, and then another. Adam took a gentle hold of his hips, enjoying the way Ronan went slack against him, easy, trusting, wanting.

Ronan sighed a low noise, something that translated as regretful; this would have been a great time for Adam to slide a hand right off his hip and down the front of his pants, if not for the threat of burnt biscuits, was what he was getting at.

And Adam was sorely tempted to do just that, or at least pull Ronan closer to feel him grind against his thigh, or even just whisper something against his neck that would leave him shivering in distracted anticipation for the next twenty or so minutes before he could drop everything in the kitchen and pull Adam back up to his bedroom instead. He didn’t do any of those things though, just kissed Ronan’s temple and watched him smile, savoring it.

It felt like a lot of responsibility sometimes, having access to Ronan’s heart with its strange, unfathomable trust and love, but Adam had a habit of taking on responsibility. That was how to get ahead, to show your potential, to prove people wrong. Truth be told, he wanted to get this right more than just about anything else he’d ever involved himself in. So far, at least, he thought he was doing a halfway decent job, near-death experiences aside.

The song that filled the warm kitchen next was light and airy, with lyrics that prattled on about a young couple walking down roads and sitting in clearings with fiddles and forest creatures. It sounded so absurdly sweet that Adam could hardly imagine Ronan enjoying it, but the music played on while they relaxed slowly against one another, nearly rocking together.

Adam could see Ronan mouthing words in time to the music, his lips matching up to  _ love,  _ to  _ nightingale _ , to  _ marry me _ , and then, abruptly, out loud, “Ugh.”

He pulled free of Adam’s hold to reach the corner countertop and slam the controls of the cd player, prompting it to skip to the next track, “That fucking song,” He complained, and stepped back by Adam again, not as body-close as he’d been before.

“Overplayed?” Adam suggested jokingly. In actuality he didn’t think any of the music Ronan listened to was ever played outside of warehouse raves or actual Irish pubs or maybe one of the middle circles of hell.

“I don’t like that version,” Ronan answered curtly. He tipped his head to one side, cracking his neck, considering, coming to some kind of agreement with himself. After a moment he elaborated, “The original lyrics are shit. When my dad used to sing it he changed the words.”

“Oh,” Adam said, more numbly than he meant to. There was still, and perhaps there always would be, a part of him that shut down at the mention of fathers. It wasn’t a topic that came up often between the two of them; too much bitterness and hurt and uncertainty on both sides for it to be a comfortable conversation. Ronan was always quick to drown out whatever harsh words Robert Parrish had left lurking in Adam’s good ear, though, and whenever Niall Lynch’s ghost echoed through the Barns, Adam stayed close to Ronan’s side and listened.

“What’s wrong with the original version?” Adam asked finally, the breathy lyrics of the new song that replaced the questionable nightingale one too quiet, possibly too Gaelic, for him to make out.

“It sucks,” Ronan scoffed. He pulled open the oven door slightly, impatient, before easing it shut again, “The lady in the song asks the guy to marry her and he’s just like, oh gee babe it’s been real but I already have a hot wife at home, and by the way I’m fucking off to India for some reason.”

Adam choked back a laugh, not just at Ronan’s exasperated explanation, but at the way he dragged the word  _ babe _ out of his mouth like it was something foul, “That does sound pretty bad,” He agreed.

“Sounds like adultery is what it sounds like,” Ronan snapped, and muttered something else that sounded suspiciously like  _ abandonment  _ as he moved to the fridge to take out a carton of orange juice and whatever was left of the milk. A moment later the timer went off, jarringly loud. 

Adam watched him grab up a hand towel and bend over to pull the now-fluffy biscuits smoothly from the oven, dropping the tray quickly on the stovetop when the heat of the metal leached almost immediately through his makeshift oven mitt. Adam asked, “Should I tell Opal they’re ready?”

“Fuck no,” Ronan said quickly, hushed, “I’m not waking her up for anything. You know how much she sleeps?” He paused, eyebrows raised, before answering his own question, “About as much as me, that’s how much.”

“That’s worrying,” Adam said, though he wasn’t really sure if dream children needed sleep or not. Matthew seemed to have taken to it like a champ, but then, he was much closer to human than Opal.

“Damn right it is,” Ronan told him, looking over the biscuits intently, as if one of them had said something nasty behind his back and he had yet to figure out which one, “Besides, she’s not getting anything until I know for sure these turned out okay.”

“You said she doesn’t care what real food tastes like,” Adam reminded him, already smiling at Ronan’s hypocrisy.

“It’s the principle of the thing, Parrish,” Ronan insisted, and gingerly plucked a biscuit off the tray, dropping it on the counter nearby so it could cool more quickly, “I’m not serving anybody a piece of shit biscuit.”

“Do  _ I  _ get to try these biscuits, or are they reserved for your refined palette?”

Ronan rolled his eyes like he was being greatly inconvenienced. He plucked the biscuit he’d set aside off the counter and tossed it, underhand at least, toward Adam, who caught it in both hands, “Be honest, you only come here to eat all my food.”

“And sleep in your bed,” Adam said, carefully pulling the biscuit apart and watching steam escape. He waited a minute, probably not long enough, before trying a bite. It was too hot against his tongue, but it tasted like any biscuit he’d had before, sort of buttery and bland, yet strangely satisfying, even with nothing on it, “It’s good,” He confirmed.

Ronan’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, “Like I could fuck up something with five ingredients,” He said flippantly, and took up the second tray of biscuits, sliding them into the oven before resetting the timer.

Adam ate the rest of the biscuit in pieces, pulling apart sections to let them cool before popping them into his mouth. Ronan watched him eat, not even pretending to look at anything but the path of fingers to lips and back. Adam got the impression that he was not so much being lusted after, or even admired, but studied, as if there were some small and integral part of himself that Ronan was still trying to figure out. The thought was equal parts endearing and discomfiting.

“So what did your dad change the lyrics of that song to?” Adam asked when his hands were empty and still, his own study still underway.

Ronan blinked at him before narrowing his eyes in near-suspicion, “He didn’t change much,” He said, “Just left out the part about the wife and said the guy went to war.”

“And that was better?”

Ronan shrugged a quick movement, flustered, “I don’t fucking know. It sounded good the way he said it.”

“Do you remember the words?” Adam asked, curious, and smiled encouragingly. He was quickly learning that Ronan was rendered helpless by his smile, which was sort of funny and exhilarating and borderline dangerous. He was trying to be responsible with this newfound power, but it was getting harder to do the more things he had to smile about.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ronan muttered, shoulders hunched.

“Sing it for me?” Adam tried.

Ronan stared him down, searching his hopeful smile for signs of mockery, and Adam didn’t begrudge him for it. He was just as guilty of picking apart every compliment Ronan offered for imagined slights, too cautious from years spent on the defensive. But when all Ronan could find in his expression was sincerity he sighed his defeat and said, shortly, “Fine. Don’t stare at me though, christ.”

Adam brought a hand up over his eyes, barely covering them, and was affectionately flipped off for his effort. He dropped it just as quick, leaning back on the counter at his back to listen, not look.

Grudgingly, Ronan sang,

“ _ Now said the fair maid, ‘Will you marry me?’ _

_ ‘Oh no,’ said the soldier, ‘However could that be? _

_ For I must go far away from our country, though you are the fairest little thing that I ever did see. _

_ Now I’m off a fighting for several long years, _

_ and though I’ll be far away my heart will be here, _

_ and when I return again it’ll be in the spring, _

_ and we’ll both sit down together love to hear the nightingale sing _ .’”

There was a long pause, the music from the CD player taking over where Ronan left off to fill the room with a cheery drinking song. Ronan gestured that he was done, show over, carry on.

“That version does sound better,” Adam told him. He stepped around Ronan to take another biscuit in hand, this one already a much more tolerable temperature, and leaned against Ronan’s side as he ate it.

“You don’t want anything on that?” Ronan asked, uncertain, and Adam shrugged, jostling him. From upstairs the telltale sound of hooves on hardwood alerted them to Opal’s movements, “Shit,” Ronan said flatly, “If you want more of those you should claim them now. Once she knows there’s food, everything that isn’t nailed down is free game.”

Adam covered his mouth, already half-full, to laugh. He swallowed and listened for Opal’s daily scramble down the stairs. He didn’t hear anything- yet. 

In the precious moments left before she tumbled into the room, Adam put a hand on Ronan’s arm, “Hey,” He said, pointedly, and Ronan’s focus was wholly on him, “I was planning on coming back here for my other breaks too.”

“You don’t have anywhere else to go,” Ronan said, probably not intending to be rude.

“Regardless, I  _ want  _ to be here,” Adam went on, “I want to be where you are.”

That took a moment to sink in.

“Are you,” Ronan started to say, puzzled, “ _ Reassuring _ me?”

“God forbid.”

Ronan looked slightly horrified,“Is this because of the sentimental singing bullshit?”

Adam shrugged, “You do have a history of communicating through mix tapes.”

“That was  _ one tape.” _

“I still listen to it,” Adam said, the  _ when I miss you _ that should have followed was self-consciously bitten back, “A couple of the song choices were kind of on the nose, in retrospect.”

Ronan rose both eyebrows, feigning offense, “Well shit, see if I ever serenade you again.”

“Ideally, you’d serenade me every day,” Adam told him, and shoved what remained of his second biscuit into his mouth, as though that might disguise the color that was rising in his cheeks.

Ronan looked so taken aback at the confession, so breathless, that Adam may as well have just whispered something filthy to him after all, “Fuck off, Parrish,” He said softly, smiling.

Not too far away, Opal’s hooves hit the stairs. Ronan readied himself to intercept her in case she ran straight for the oven. Adam took another biscuit and listened, for Opal’s excited chattering, for Ronan’s barely contained laughter, for whatever he needed to hear from a bunch of old Irish folk songs.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs listened to/referenced:
> 
> -Some Say The Devil Is Dead  
> -Ramblin’ Rover  
> -The Nightingale Sings
> 
> Alternate lyrics for 'The Nightingale Sings' are the ones my own dad used to sing me! :)


End file.
